I create my own magic

At the time of my birth, my dad was employed by the Chicago White Sox and my mom was a competitive triathlete. My childhood was kind of like The Sandlot. We came home to an endless game of catch in the backyard and hot dogs on the grill. 

Year-round, with the exception of one week during the summer, our calendar was jam-packed with travel sports and expectations of excellence. But I always knew when my Aunt Kathy pulled up in her Mercury Cougar, it was time for seven heavenly days at what I called Camp Bladow (her last name).

Rather than hanging at the ball field, days were spent imagining and creating with my brilliant Bladow cousins. After a dip in the pool, we’d turn our towels into fashion, and strut down the back deck catwalk. We’d camp out in the basement writing and developing skits to perform. At night we were free to catch fireflies and pretend to be fairies in the forest. It was mystical and magical and the complete opposite of my rigid life.

The drive home after a week of Camp Bladow always left me feeling blue. As a kid, it was confusing to not feel connected to the Sporty Spice childhood my parents had provided. Now, twenty five years later, I can recognize that icky emotion as shame for being different. Shame so unbearable it led to five arrests, five rehabs, and two hospitalizations all before my 31st birthday.

The key to sobriety, for me, is about honoring that girl from Camp Bladow. It’s about turning off those impossible, self-made expectations and finding myself by cranking up the creativity. It’s about closing my eyes, breathing deeply, tuning in with myself, and brain dumping with glitter and vibrant colors. This is where my truth lives.

Camp Bladow taught me how to create my own magic with my own imagination. It taught me that magical places reside within me, not outside of me. Best of all, my magic is always there waiting for me when I’m ready to welcome it home.

I create my own magic.